


The Shiver of We Shouldn't

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [61]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: For a being who can can stop a bullet, when they’re together like this, Clark might as well be made of parchment and glass.





	The Shiver of We Shouldn't

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: There’s something about this place that feels right. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

There’s something about this place that feels right. The juncture between Clark’s shoulder and his neck, the long lines that crest in his pulse, that’s a place Bruce would gladly get lost.

Part of it are the noises that Clark makes when Bruce’s kissing him there; the way his head falls back as they tumble out, those sounds, open and eager and sweet. Bruce has never been with somebody who writhes for him, whose whole body concusses with the feel of each kiss, but Clark does. Every time. At first, Bruce figured it was the novelty of it, the wrongness, the way that their going to bed together made the world feel all kinds of askew. But it’s been six months since that first, fevered kiss and while the shiver of _we shouldn’t_ hasn’t completely faded, it’s hard to remember they didn’t always do this, that they haven’t always taken shelter in the lee of each other’s arms.

Now, still, all these weeks on, Clark still vibrates with every kiss, each brush of Bruce’s tongue, no matter where it falls--on his throat, on his chest, on the underside of his arm. Just a peck on his cheek and he’s a cymbal struck, a drum, every inch of him singing, and when Bruce is sucking his cock, Clark’s body is the string of a bass plucked by a god.

For a being who can can stop a bullet, when they’re together like this, he might as well be made of parchment and glass.

He bites at Clark’s jaw hard, licks at the sting, and Clark moans, a soft breeze of sound.

“You like that?” Bruce says, soft.

Clark’s hand tightens in his hair. “Yes.”

“Do you want me to do it again?”

“Yes, but--”

Bruce smooths a palm over Clark’s chest, watches his breathing leap in response. “But?”

Clark’s eyes open and turn towards his, flowers reaching for the sun. “Would you kiss me?”

Damn it. Bruce’s fool heart jumps in his chest and he does his best to forget that Clark can hear it; to forget that no matter how schooled his face, how cool his manner, if Clark wants to see right through him, he can. “I thought that I was.” He smooths the storm of curls from Clark’s forehead. “Or did you not notice?”

A huff, a sigh, and Clark’s free hand closes over Bruce’s, pins them both to the beat of his heart. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Bruce. Especially in bed.”

“Mmmm, don’t they?” His mouth sneaks into a grin. “You were strongly in favor of it a few hours ago.”

Clark snorts and rolls his eyes and it’s so _Clark_ , so far from Superman, that Bruce can’t help but laugh. “Maybe,” Clark says, “but I’ve missed you. Missed coming with you clutched around me. So I was willing to overlook your obvious character flaws.”

“I’m flattered that you fucked me despite your better judgement.”

Clark’s face lights up. “Believe it or not,” he says, “my better judgment always brings me back to you.”

There are a thousands places they should be, a thousand problems that await as soon as they crawl out of this bed, this island, this idyll they’ve built for themselves, but right now, everywhere that isn’t here feels like a half-remembered dream, a world sketched out of smoke.


End file.
